Another Second Chance
by Echante
Summary: And they end up there because it is where they're meant to be, goodness never won out over desperation. And that's why he's lying naked on your bed. Mark/Addison


A/N: I'm trying not to be too happy… it's a little hard. In the newest promo (and I am stating this as a fact) Mark strips down in Addison's office and then they make out. Merry Christmas! Also, if you haven't yet, please subscribe to Maddyson in the community section! We are at number four! Eight more and we can get my lucky number! Three!

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_When will you realize... Vienna waits for you._

His naked body lies upon your bed, and he looks so beautifully fallen. The night traces shadows into the crevices of his muscles, and the wind whistles a harmony against his wary moans. It is a sight that you'd much rather not see again, you know the expression too well; you've known this tradition too many times. It's in the night when he comes to you, and you bandage his wounds while you open your own; and you soothe his pain while it slaughters you. He's sacrificed a part of himself for you, and it's physically painful to return it. But you have to. You owe him.

There's a window by the bed, where you watch the world pass, but today, it waves and you turn your back. It hurts just like you knew it would, another seam burst in your bandaged heart. You thought you left him in better hands, but they were only smaller than your own. Those can still squeeze just as tight.

_"I always come back," he announced when you opened the door, "I don't know why."_

_ "Maybe you should stop," you suggest, even as you let him in, "then you wouldn't need a reason."_

_ He shook his head, "I wish I could, but I don't even remember coming here. It's gotten habitual I think, it's like kinesthetic memory. "_

_ And you accepted his explanation._

He rolls over and exposes himself, and you should blush, or stammer, or turn red, but you don't. You don't because you've touched him too many times to feel embarrassed about seeing it again. Instead you walk over and sit on his chest and reach a hand down to tangle in the graying hair that is ruffled against your pillow. You found a picture of yourself tucked inside the chest pocket of his button-up shirt; it had been torn and then salvaged in desperation. You stare at it for a little while in remembrance. Then you shake him awake.

He opens his eyes suddenly and without struggle, and you begin to suspect he's been awake for awhile, watching you as you thought about him. You flash the picture in front of his face and pout, "I don't appreciate being torn up," then you pause and add, "but at least you put me back together…"

He sighs, "Lexie found it and threw a fit."

You look down up him sharply, "And then you still kept it?"

He looks away, "You're surprised?"

"I thought you were smarter than that." You tell him.

"I am," he says in reply, "I'm just not... stronger than that."

You sigh, "Is that all that happened? She found a little picture that you like to carry like a five-year-old's blanket and dumped your ass?" You don't mention Sloan Riley or your affair that began in an office in the Ocean Side, you simplify it for the two of you, and he plays along.

"It was a bit more than that…" He doesn't elaborate so you don't ask; you know he'll tell you in time. When the silence persists, you take the picture from his hand and examine it closer. You recognize the smile as one he put on your face; he drew out your laughter with his lewd jokes, and took the picture when you laughed unguarded. For the two months you were together, he heralded it as his prize possession. And in the time after, he hid it as his buried treasure. But now you know why he likes it so much. You see his hand in your carefree smile. His influence is in the crinkled corners of your eyes and the wind-swept mess that you let your hair become. You see his face in yours, you can remember the promise, the hope, the idealism, as he whispered that the most traumatic experience of your life could be liberating, that it could be so much better. And for awhile it was.

By this time you've rolled over so your head is buried in his chest, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathes as he takes them.

It always ends up like this. You, listening to his heart as if you could make it sing, and him, an arm wrapped around your shoulder, a kiss tucked into your hair as if he could protect you, as if he was your warrior. It used to hurt until the guilt gnawed at your subconscious, until you nearly passed out from the pain, but now, the fact that Lexie Grey is being wronged because the two of you are together, the fact that they got into a fight and he'd rather run to you than fix it with his girlfriend, none of it matters. He's never stopped loving you deep within his soul, and you've never stopped hating him for moving on, deep within yours. This is how it is meant to end, and endless talks about growing up, about being good, have never had an impact on desperation. You need him like you need air, and for the longest time, you were drowning.


End file.
